THE darkness steals the forms of all
the queens,
But oh,
the palms of his two black hands are red,
Inflamed with binding up the
sheaves of dead
Hours that were once all glory and all
queens.
And I remember all the sunny
hours
Of queens in
hyacinth and skies of gold,
And morning singing where the woods are
scrolled
And
diapered above the chaunting flowers.
Here lamps are white like snowdrops
in the grass;
The
town is like a churchyard, all so still
And grey now night is here; nor
will
Another torn
red sunset come to pass.